by Terry Brooks
“You make it sound so easy,” Shadea said, giving him a sharp look.
“It will be easy, if you do it right.” He stared back at her. “You will be able to do it right, Shadea, won’t you?”
“If there is any treachery attached to this gift, Prime Minister,” she said carefully, “it will come home to roost on your doorstep.”
He reached over for a set of notes he had been writing and began leafing through them. “A word of caution. The Ard Rhys has a brother who possesses the gift, as well. His magic is said to be the equal of hers. You might want to consider what he will do when he discovers that his sister is missing. I understand he went through quite a lot to save her during that airship journey west twenty years back, when he discovered they were related. If not for him, she would still be the Ilse Witch. That makes her an investment he might not be quick to give up on.”
“He has little contact with her these days,” she replied irritably. “He has little to do with her at all.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes a little is all that is necessary where families are concerned. Brothers and sisters are funny that way. You, of all people, should understand that.” His smile was smug and indulgent. “It just seems to me that where a potential problem exists, you would be smart to find a solution early.”
He studied her momentarily, then lowered his gaze to his notes. “Good night, Shadea. Good luck.”
She held her ground a moment longer, thinking how easy it would be to kill him. Then she tucked the bottle into her dark robes, turned away without another word, touched the wall to release the hidden catch, and left him behind.
Five
When she was behind the wall panel and out of Sen Dunsidan’s room, Shadea a’Ru stood in the darkness of the passageway beyond and breathed deeply to calm herself. Any encounter with the Prime Minister was unsettling, but it was the task that lay ahead that gave her pause now. She touched the hard outline of the bottle inside her robes, to reassure herself that it was safely under her control, then gathered her thoughts. It would have to be done that night, while the Ard Rhys slept. She believed herself safe in her chambers, and she had been until that night. Rock Trolls under the command of Kermadec stood at her doorway day and night, and her own magic warded the chamber against intruders. The passageways that honeycombed the Keep behind its stone walls had been closed off long ago so that, aside from the windows, there was only one way in or out.
But Shadea had found a way to get around all that. The Rock Trolls outside the door were of no use if the attack came from within, which it would. The magic that warded the chamber was of no use if the attack was not something it could protect against, and in this case it wasn’t. Finally, although the passageways had been closed off some time back, Shadea had opened a few very recently in expectation of what was planned for that night. She had started with the passageway leading to Sen Dunsidan’s quarters, so that they could meet secretly. She had ended with the passageway that led to the chambers of the Ard Rhys. The latter had taken her nearly two weeks because not only was it physically sealed, but it was warded with magic, as well. She had broken down that magic, a painfully slow process, then restored it at its perimeter to give the appearance of still being intact.
She stared into the darkness around her, her eyes adjusting, her thoughts settling. Everything was in place. Everything was as ready as it was ever going to be. Her careful planning and preparation were about to be rewarded.
She allowed herself a fierce, predatory smile and started walking.
Shadea a’Ru had experienced a hard life, but she thought herself the better for having survived its vicissitudes and misfortunes. Surviving had made her strong of body and tough of mind. Without those attributes, she would not be where she was, planning to accomplish something that others could only muse about privately. Terek Molt aside, all the others had enjoyed privileged upbringings with advantages that she had never even come close to enjoying. She didn’t resent it or feel cheated because of it; she reveled in it.
She was orphaned by the age of eight, her mother dead in childbirth and her father killed on the Prekkendorran. Shadea and her siblings were separated and sent to live with the families of various relatives, but she ran away at ten and never saw any of them again. She was big for her age and initially awkward, but she was always strong. As she grew, the awkwardness disappeared and her strength increased. She lived in the streets of Dechtera for five years, staying alive by her wits and her daring and the occasional kindness of others.
At fifteen, already close to six feet tall and the physical equal of anyone her age, she began hanging out at the Federation barracks, doing odd jobs for the soldiers. A few thought to test her resistance to their unwanted advances, for she was striking by then, but after they discovered she not only was big and strong but knew how to fight, they left her alone. A few took the time to teach her to use weapons. She was a quick study and naturally gifted. By the time she was twenty, she was already more accomplished than the men she had learned from. At twenty-four, she had served two years on the front lines of the Prekkendorran and gained the respect of everyone who knew about her.
She met the cripple the following year. He was of indeterminate origin, so gnarled and deformed that it was impossible to label his Race. She never learned his name, but names were never important in their relationship. He was a practitioner of the magic arts, primarily a weaver of spells. He was infatuated with her for reasons she never fully understood, and he was willing to trade what he knew for the pleasure of her company. It was an easy bargain for her to make. She stayed with him only one year, time that passed so quickly that in retrospect it always seemed impossible to her that it had really been that long. His health was already failing when they met, and by the end of the year he was dead. But before he died, he taught her what he knew about magic, which was considerable. He was a teacher in search of a student, but he was careful in making his choices. He must have watched her for a time, she decided afterwards, measuring her strengths, determining whether or not she would be worth the effort. Once he had decided that she was and further determined that she was not repelled by his looks, he gave her his full attention for the time that was left him.
He never told her why he decided to spend his last few months teaching her. He must have known he was dying. She thought that maybe it helped him to have a purpose in his life rather than simply waiting for the inevitable. She thought that he took pleasure in watching his own deteriorating skills put to use by someone still young and strong. Perhaps teaching was all he knew to do in his final years, and so he did it. Perhaps he found in her company something that was sustaining and comforting. Perhaps he simply didn’t want to die alone. It was hard to tell, but she accepted his gift without questioning it.
Her natural affinity for summoning and employing magic was immediately apparent to both of them. She was able to grasp and employ the subtle art of spell weaving almost from the beginning, her comprehension of the ways in which words and hand movements worked together enabling her to cast simple spells from their first session. The old man was delighted and actually clapped his hands. She progressed rapidly from there, all of it, at first, a mystery that offered such possibilities that she could not help imagining the secrets she would uncover.
After he died, held in her arms as he breathed his last, comforted in the way he deserved to be, she studied alone for several years, closeted away in quarters not far from her Federation soldier friends, whom she still spent time with regularly. But the Federation no longer held any interest for her. It was too regimented, too structured, and she was in need of freedom. She saw that her future lay elsewhere.
Her break with Federation life came about in an unexpected way. She stayed too long and perhaps spoke too freely of leaving. Some took exception, men she knew only casually and didn’t much care for. One night, they drugged her and took her out of the city to an abandoned shack on the Rappahalladran’s banks. There, they held her prisoner for two days and
violated her in unspeakable ways, and when they were finished with her they threw her into a river to drown. Tougher than they suspected, dragging herself to safety through sheer force of will, she survived.
When she had recovered her strength, she went back into the city, hunted them down one by one, and killed them all.
She fled afterwards, because the dead men most certainly had relatives and friends. There had been enough talk that sooner or later some of them would come looking for her. Besides, the incident had soured her on the city and the Federation and her life in general. It was time for her to go somewhere else. She had heard about the Third Druid Council and thought she might find a home there, but she didn’t want to ask for admission into the order until she was certain they would not turn her away. So she went west into the Wilderun and the town of Grimpen Ward, the last refuge of fugitives and castoffs of all kinds, thinking to isolate herself and work on her magic skills until she had perfected them. Few came looking for those who hid in Grimpen Ward, where all hid secrets of one sort or another and none wanted the past revealed.
She stayed there until her twenty-eighth birthday, keeping apart from the other denizens, practicing her art with the single-mindedness that defined her personality. She expanded her field of study from potions and spells to the uses of earth power and the elements, particularly the summoning up of shades and dead things that could be made to do her bidding and to offer their insights. Her skills sharpened, but her emotional character deadened proportionately. She had never had trouble killing when it was required; now killing became a means to her magic’s ends. Killing was inherent to the unlocking of many of the forms of power she sought to master. Whether of animals or humans, killing was a part of the rituals she embraced. There were other, safer ways in which to proceed, but none so quick or far-reaching in their results. She let herself become seduced. She hastened to her self-destruction.
By the time she met Iridia Eleri, an outcast and a sorceress like herself, she was deep in the throes of dark magic’s lure and hungry for a larger taste. Iridia was already half-mad with her own twisted needs, her own secrets, and they formed a friendship based on mutual cravings. Magic could give them everything they desired, they believed; they needed only to master its complexities.
They decided together to go to Paranor and seek admission into the Druid order. They made the journey in a fever, but when they put forth their applications were careful to hide the inner madnesses that drove them. The Ard Rhys was surprisingly easy to fool. She was distracted by the demands of her undertaking as leader of the order, and her primary concern was to find talented individuals willing to serve the Druid cause. Shadea a’Ru and Iridia Eleri seemed to be what she was seeking. What she failed to perceive was that both women dissembled; they were willing to embrace the Druid cause, but only in so far as it was necessary for them to do so and then only for reasons that were peculiarly their own.
After the first three years of service, it was clear to both sorceresses that although Grianne Ohmsford possessed great power, she no longer commanded the authority of the Ilse Witch. She had allowed herself to become weakened by the constraints she had imposed on herself in casting off her past life. She was unwilling to take the risks or make the sacrifices that the witch would have been quick to understand were necessary. Neither Shadea nor Iridia had such compunctions. The order was foundering, and its chances of gaining control over the Races were diminishing daily. Shadea, in particular, was determined to take control of the order and to lead it in the direction she knew it needed to go. Having decided that there was only one way that could happen, she was quick to put aside her oaths of loyalty to the Ard Rhys and to take up the mantle of active dissident.
For five years, Shadea had searched for a way to fufill her ambitions, to topple Grianne Ohmsford and to make herself Ard Rhys. This night, it was finally going to happen.
Her steps quickened as she followed the musty passageway to its secret exit, two floors farther down in a storeroom in which bedding and pallets were kept. Excitement radiated from her smooth, strong face, a palpable hunger that was fierce and alive. She would not falter, she would not fail. If the potion was good, her goal would be achieved and the waiting would end.
If it failed, she hoped only to escape long enough to return to Sen Dunsidan and cut out his heart.
Grianne Ohmsford put aside her notes and writings, her records of past meetings with the Prime Minister, her summaries of efforts undertaken and mostly failed, and prepared herself for bed. Tagwen appeared long enough to brew her a cup of sleeping tea, which she took regularly these days, and to straighten up her room. He fussed about for a time, waiting for her to say something to him, which she finally did. She asked if he had taken Kermadec something to eat, which he had. Trolls took pride in their independence and resourcefulness, and it was not customary for them ever to ask for anything while traveling. It had to be offered voluntarily. This habit was born out of custom and a history of being at war with almost everyone, and it wasn’t likely to change anytime soon.
Tagwen also reported that the Trolls guarding her room were in place, something he did every night as a reassurance to her, but to which she paid hardly any attention. She did not feel threatened at Paranor, her prickly relationship with some of the more overtly hostile members of the order notwithstanding. Guards and stone walls, warding spells and watchful eyes were not what would save her in any case, should the need for saving arise. Instincts and premonitions were what protected her, her own resources and not those of others. Years spent as the Ilse Witch had sharpened both to a razor’s edge, and she did not think time spent as the Ard Rhys had dulled either.
“Wake me early, Tagwen,” she asked him as he prepared to leave.
“I won’t need to,” he responded. “You will be awake before me. You always are. Good night, mistress.”
He went out quietly, closing the door behind him as if it were made of glass. She smiled to herself, wondering what she would do without him. For someone so small and seemingly inconsequential, he was in many respects the most important member of the order.
She wandered over to her tea, sat down, and began to sip the hot mix gingerly. As it cooled, she finished it off, hardly aware of what she was doing, her thoughts on the coming meetings and on the ramifications of what she hoped to accomplish. She let her thoughts stray momentarily to Traunt Rowan and his strangely urgent request, but she quickly moved on to other matters. Resigning her position was out of the question. She thought she would elevate one or two members of the order to positions of greater importance, among them Trefen Morys, who had demonstrated repeatedly that he merited advancement. Gerand Cera was another possibility, but she wasn’t sure yet where he stood on the matter of her continuing as Ard Rhys. She toyed with the idea of elevating Traunt Rowan, in spite of his attitude toward her. It might serve to distance him from Shadea a’Ru and Iridia Eleri, something that could only help him. They were the women with the most talent in the order, and neither could be trusted for a moment. Sooner or later, they would have to be dealt with.
Her eyes grew heavy with the drink, and she moved to her bed, slipped off her robe, and climbed beneath the covers. Her last thoughts were of the strange happenings in the ruins of the Skull Kingdom and her determination to discover who had initiated them. A visit to the Hadeshorn and the shades of the Druids might provide insight into the matter, and she had already made the necessary arrangements for the journey. As soon as the meetings with Sen Dunsidan were completed, she would depart with Kermadec, perhaps even telling Tagwen where she was going, just to see the look of disapproval on his face.
She was too tired even to blow out the candles on her writing desk, and so drifted off to sleep with the light of both still flickering brightly in the overlay of the chamber’s deep shadows.
Night settled over Paranor, silent and velvet black under a wash of light from moon and stars that spilled from a cloudless sky. Most of the Druids were asleep, only a few who liked work
ing late at night still awake in their rooms and study chambers, keeping to themselves. The Troll watch was in place, not only at the door of the Ard Rhys but at the gates of the Keep, as well. There was no real concern for anyone’s safety, no anticipation of the sort of danger that had existed in the time of the Warlock Lord, but the Trolls were careful anyway. Complacency had undone the Druids and their protectors in the past.
Shadea a’Ru stole through the walls of the high tower, following the twists and turns of the secret passageway that led to the sleeping chamber of the Ard Rhys. It was well after midnight, and she knew no better opportunity would offer itself than the one she acted on now. She had swept the musty corridor of magic once again only two days earlier, during the Ard Rhys’ absence, and she was quite certain Grianne had not had an opportunity to reset her wardings in the short time since her return. The sorceress moved slowly in the gloom, generating a small finger of magic light to keep from stumbling. She must make no sound in her approach, offer nothing that would alert the sleeping Ard Rhys to her presence. She must maintain the presence of a tiny mouse.
She was sweating freely, her body heat elevated by the closeness of the passageway and her excitement. She was not afraid. She was never afraid. It wasn’t that she was reckless or foolish; it was that she understood the nature of risk. Failure in dangerous situations came about because of poor planning or bad luck. The former was something you could control, and if you kept your wits about you, sometimes the latter, as well. She had learned that for people like her, orphans and disadvantaged souls, gains were achieved mostly through risk. That was the nature of her lot in life, and she had long ago accepted it.
The night’s activities would measure that acceptance in a way it hadn’t been measured before. If she succeeded, she would have a chance at gaining everything she had wanted for so long. If she failed, she would likely be dead.